Category Archives: real life

Oh, Black Water

Posted on by

LucilleI’m going to talk about my home state just a bit, prodded by getting a tag for the new vehicle. The new MS car tags have an image of BB King’s “Lucille” guitar (Gibson ES355) on the central medallion. My home state gets a lot of grief, most of it deserved, a lot self-inflicted, but it’s nice to be reminded now and then that we don’t get *everything* wrong. (Though I do count it a major irony that a state with such a musical reputation has arguably the worst state song in the Union. If you doubt me, look it up. And see if you can get through the whole thing without passing out laughing.)

Ahem. Where was I? Oh, yeah–A friend from up North once asked me if I liked living in Mississippi. I had to think about that one for a while. What follows is as close as I can come to an honest answer, with the understanding that it’s an issue I’m never going to be objective about. Take it for what it’s worth.

I don’t think “like” is the right word. Say rather that I was born here, grew up here, and I understand it. I admit that sometimes I get righteously pissed off when I hear some of the knee-jerk putdowns the state often gets from outsiders, usually from people who 1) Don’t know what the hell they’re talking about and 2) Live in states whose own houses are not only “not in order” but a hot mess besides. I also get righteously ticked off when the people of my home state do stupid and self-destructive things, like voting for people who are blatantly and obviously not looking out for their best interests (We haven’t had a decent governor since William Winter). All that aside, and contrary to perception, there are a lot of wonderful, generous and enlightened people here. There are also far too many ignorant jackasses who proudly believe that their bigotry and ignorance are Biblical virtues.

So, like? Don’t like? All I can really say about it, as is said of many relationships–“It’s complicated.”

“Having Nothing to Say, He Says it at Length”

Posted on by

Hailstone1Writing short stories—good ones—is a skill and an art and a craft. Writing a novel is all those things too, plus a marathon. Just as the novel is paced differently, so is the mindset of the person writing the thing. At least that’s what I’m contemplating at the moment, so far as how it pertains to blogging. There are a lot of—in my humble opinion—interesting things happening, but 1) they’re internal 2) they make almost no sense out of context and 3) I can’t talk about them anyway. The reason I can’ talk about them is illustrated by the advice a famous pulp author once allegedly gave to Ray Bradbury when Bradbury was letting his youthful enthusiasm get the better of him and he’d talk out his stories before he even wrote them. That advice being: “Ray, shut up.”

A bit dutch-uncle blunt, but very good advice for a writer. If you want to talk about a story or novel, talk about it on the page by writing the darn thing. Because we are storytellers, and telling the story aloud really does take the edge off your desire to get the thing written down. And unless you are a professional verbal storyteller who gets paid for keeping a crowd entertained, the story doesn’t exist until you write it down for your own crowd, who are, if you’re lucky, your readers. Which means a healthy dose of STFU is indicated.

Problem is, though this is good advice for someone trying to get a novel finished before year’s end, STFU is the exact opposite of what one has to do to keep up a regular blog. So I will talk about something I can talk about, referencing that humoungous hailstone seen above. Those who follow this blog may remember the massive hailstorm we suffered back in March. Well, with one thing and another I just got around to filing a claim for the damage to my truck, and Sunday the claims adjustor got a look at it.

That frickin’ hailstorm totaled my truck. That is, it was an old truck, and now the cost to repair it exceeds the value of the vehicle=totaled. I’m going to miss that truck. I called it T-Chan, and old fans of Ranma ½ may get the reference. It hauled a lot of loads over the years: paving stones, lumber for Carol’s meditation pyramid, the flooring of at least half the house, our new couch. But then I thought, if I don’t have a truck, I won’t have to haul all this $&^t any more. So we went out last night and bought a hybrid.

Was that interesting? I’m guessing no. But remember, the good stuff I can’t talk about. Yet.

Monday, Monday…Oh, Wait. It’s Tuesday

Posted on by

 

The Blood Red ScarfIt actually is Tuesday. What the heck happened to Monday? I have a vague recollection of organizing network cables and something about a square peg in a triangular hole, but not much else. And a few words written. Maybe 500 or so. Not the blazing progress that makes me happy, but sort of necessary, when you’re at the stage where something important is about to happen in the story and you know what it is, but you’re not exactly sure why it’s important. That’s the frustating part–knowing its important, but not a clue why that is. And you do need to know. Instinct only goes so far. Working things out on paper makes for progress but not a high word count. If I’m lucky, that’ll come later.

Where was I? Oh, yeah. Monday. I’m one of the few people I know who don’t mind Mondays. Mostly because I’m not enamored of the weekend, as so many other folk seem to be. And why should I be? Free time?  Weekends aren’t free time for me in any way, shape, or form.There’s family time. There’s housework and yardwork time. There’s All the Errands You Couldn’t Do During the Week time. My time?  Doesn’t exist. Not complaining, mind.  My priorities are where I’ve set them so I’ve no cause to fuss.  But there are certain realities that must be dealt with.  One is that I almost never get any writing done over the weekend.  Two is that I actually kind of like my day job. I don’t mind getting back to it. So Monday has no horror for me. Tuesday, otoh…

And it is Tuesday.

A Writer’s Gotta Do What a Writer’s Gotta Do

Posted on by

MPF-Table-LeftThis was a working weekend, and I don’t mean mowing the yard, even though it does need it badly. I spent the past two days at the Mississippi Petrified Forest in Flora. For those who don’t know, this is a privately owned park at a spot where, about 300,000 years ago, some really large trees got swept down a river in some past deluge and deposited to turn into stone. There’s a stone and fossil museum, gift shop, and a nature trail that takes you past some of the logs that have eroded out of the loess cliffs over the centuries. If you’re at all interested in such things—I am—it makes for an interesting walk.

This weekend they were having their 50th Anniversary and celebrated with crawfish, live music, and…book signings? Yep. Part of the eclectic assemblage of all day events. Along with flint-knapping demos, geode cracking, and sessions with metaphysical and holistic healers. I was dubious of course. I always am, about pretty much anything. It’s my nature and annoys my wife no end. But she was participating and I was invited too and I thought, why not?

Okay, for those who have not done this before, a signing can take many forms, but usually it will involve you, in a more or less trafficked spot, behind a table piled with your books—a small pile or a large pile, depending—being friendly and talking to people, two things that everyone who knows me will concede are not my inclinations. It doesn’t even necessarily involve selling and signing books, though that’s the premise and the way it tends to work with the right venue and the right crowd. I knew going in that this was not my venue or crowd, but I didn’t mind. I figured that the worst that could happen was that I’d have a couple days to catch up on my reading, and at least I’d get some practice at self-promotion under less than ideal conditions.

Which just goes to tell you how little I know. Continue reading →

Plodding, With Occasional Smites From the Heavens

Posted on by

Hailstone1We’re kind of at the point where nothing is happening, but that nothing has to happen in just the right way. By which I mean that I’m well into the book and at the stage, which lasts just about until, oh, the time that stage ends, when I don’t know what I’m doing, I don’t know what’s going to happen except perhaps in broad strokes, and I still have to figure out how to write this book. And to those who say, you damn well should know how to write a novel by now, I can only answer (cribbing from a colleague of mine), “Of course I know how to write a novel. I know how to write the one I finished last. Ask me anything about To Break the Demon Gate and I can tell you. Ask me about The War God’s Son, and I can only stare at you, and possibly drool a little. One of the few things I know for certain is that I’m approaching the 10,000 word threshold. Why is it a threshold? Because I say it is. Or a mile marker. Kind of the same thing in this context.

None of this is especially worrisome to me. I don’t know how everyone else does it, but I go through this every time I write anything, be it short story or novel or blog post. It’s just that with a novel it is far more obvious, and the stage lasts longer. I’m not worried, but if I had any sense I would be. Sometimes sense isn’t your friend.

As for the picture, that’s what the sky dropped on us Monday. I’ve got a couple of big dents in the truck roof and a thoroughly cracked windshield. Other people got worse, though we’ll have to let the insurance adjuster inspect our new roof to make sure it wasn’t totalled. Real life waits for no novel. I don’t think ‘real life’ is a reader.